Raindrops and Roses
by Phoenix Belfalas
Summary: Draco Malfoy hates raindrops and roses. But why?


Title – Raindrops and Roses

Author – Phoenix Tears

Summary – Draco Malfoy hates raindrops and roses. But why?

Rating – PG, to be safe. Only a musing – somewhat angsty, though. Mentions of slash.

Authoress' Note: Can take place anytime from sixth year to seventh year.

Disclaimer – I own nothing, except for this plot. Everything else belongs to the goddess J.K. Rowling. Though I wish I _did_ own Draco. Harry would be nice also…

Feedback – Of course, as for every writer, questions, thoughts, and constructive criticism are all greatly appreciated. Thank you, and enjoy.

            Draco Malfoy hated raindrops and roses.

            He had hated both of them for as far back as he could remember, even before he hated Lucius Malfoy, and _that_ was saying something, as Lucius was his father.

            Besides the fact that raindrops and roses reminded many people of romantic and loving things, which Draco Malfoy did _not_ like to be reminded of, he still hated both with a fierce intensity that burned, smouldering deeply inside his heart.

            Raindrops. They were like tears – tears of something so vast and large and never ending that it hurt. Hurt that something so vast would be allowed to cry, yet not him.

            The sky let the raindrops fall from the sky, gently and drizzling at times, yet harsh and splattering violently at others. But it meant the sky was crying. Crying was one act that a Malfoy was forbidden, and assumedly incapable, to perform. But Draco wanted to cry – it would at _least_ give him a sign that he was, indeed, human, like everyone else.

            Rule 19 of the Malfoy Family Code of Conduct clearly stated that Malfoys, with all their pureblooded, aristocratic dignity and the one hundred pure percent Veela blood running proudly in their royal veins, were certainly _not_ human. Humans were mere beings that the gods played with; emotions mere accessories to these weak beings. Malfoys were neither weak nor something that anyone, even the gods, played with.

            In the winter, when it would rain and the roads leading up the Manor would be all slushy and wet, Draco would look outside of the parlour window, an expensive French cashmere sweater draped elegantly over his shoulders, and see the pelting raindrops. And in the morning, after the storm had subsided, Draco would once more look outside the parlour window and see the raindrops, now frozen into ice.

            A Malfoy, if anything, could be defined as one thing – ice. Ice was clean, sharp, cunning, dazzling, and beautiful – everything a Malfoy was. But a Malfoy was not rain, and ice could never be rain, though the ice came from the rain. And so Draco Malfoy hated rain, for it was something he could never be, yet what he came from.

            And there were the roses. Roses were beautiful, their blood-red petals gently unfurling from the center, like a vortex that simply drew you within their perfection.

            They were lovely, refined, exquisite, yes, but they had thorns. Roses were also dangerous and could easily draw blood with a mere careless twitch of the fingers.

            Malfoys were like roses. They were all gorgeous – stunningly, blindingly so – and they had treacherous, piercing thorns. Be the thorns, the trademark Malfoy eyes – those piercing, molten quicksilver eyes that melted hearts and could read your innermost thoughts – or the lightning quick speed at which Malfoys were known to kill with a well placed hex, they were there. And every Malfoy had their petals and their thorns.

            But Draco hated the name Malfoy, and so he hated roses.

            So the silver haired Slytherin was quite surprised, when one day, his majestic owl flecked with tawny and gold streaks delivered to him a black flower attached to a creamy envelope while he was musing in an empty, disused classroom. The flower was a rose. Black roses were very rare in the world, and known for the variety of spells they could be used for, but Draco hated roses. All kinds of roses. And especially roses that were sprinkled ever so delicately with a smattering of raindrops.

            It was ever so beautiful, of course, and Draco relished the seeming perfection of it for a few moments. The black petals gently curled outwards, the scent of it dangerous but enthralling, heavenly, but at the same time, demonic. The dark green stem was wound with thorns and perfectly shaped leaves the form of almonds. A few raindrops were speckled gently over the edges of several petals, their crystal color shining brightly in the sun. 

Draco closed his eyes for a moment, and, forgetting that he hated roses, basked in the ethereal splendor of the ebony flower. Suddenly, the prince of Slytherin pricked his finger on a thorn, and it drew a small rivulet of blood. Startled out of his reverie, Draco threw the rose onto the other side of the desk he was at, and opened the ivory envelope.

_Dear Draco,_

_            Your frank hatred of raindrops and roses astounds me. Both are such beautiful, poignant symbols of life – how could you despise either? Yes, I have noticed – how could I not, with watching your every move, every action, and every habit for these past few years. You haunt my dreams and thoughts, prince of Slytherin. I would, quite possibly, be the last person you would expect to write a letter to you. I did send the rose, and I hope you will cherish it for what it is, Draco._

_            A wise man once said, "Do not despise things for having what you do not. Do not despise things for being what you are not. Instead, love and embrace them, and treasure that they are not like you."_

_            If you really must know why I am writing this letter, and your cunning mind has not figured it out by now – I am infatuated with you, and have been ever since I first met you at the beginning of Hogwarts. Maybe the first time I met you could be counted as being in Diagon Alley in a certain 'Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions'. You were exquisite to me then – beautiful but haughty, defiant but not someone I could possibly compare to. Then I was naïve and innocent; now I am older and have seen so many things to know that you need not dwell on yourself or what you are not, Draco._

_            If roses are the children of the earth, and raindrops the tears of the sky, then you must be the angel of heaven who owns them all._

_Love, Harry James Potter_

            A faint smile played across Draco's petal pale lips, and he picked up the rose again, twirling it affectionately in his fingers. He then brought it up to his lips, inhaling the fragrance of the flower, and kissed the petals with a gentleness so pure and sweet it made seraphs sing, each inky black petal one at a time, and let the wetness of the rain and the velvety soft texture of the petals linger on his lips.

            Barely twenty feet away, near the door of the classroom, a shining pair of brilliant emerald eyes flickered lovingly for a moment, and then, in a swish of silk, disappeared.

End Note – Ooh. I hadn't meant for it to turn out this way, but oh well. The story does its own writing, you know? Never listens to me… Hmph. But I'm not upset with how it turned out, however. This was written in a sudden urge of a plot that nagged at me for the whole school day, so right when I got home, I typed it up and – voila – this is the result. I just found the image of Draco, roses [preferably black], and raindrops strangely moving.

Feedback – Yes, I know I mentioned this before, but I will say it again. The repetition of something always increases the importance of it. At least, something like that, I think. But feedback is food for the writer, so click that little purple button down there… Constructive criticism and any thoughts are welcome. 


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